Chapter Text
Fair skies and following seas graced the Radz-at-Han kee Krpa ; Tapan sat upon the upper deck of the trading ship, re-oiling his khanda to protect the blade from rusting in the ocean air. With any luck he would not need it, but their hold contained a wealth in silks that was simply too great a prize not to protect. The blade was light but strong, and its edge held true, for a boon. The pari , however, was scuffed, its ornamentations tarnished; it had seen better days. No matter. The shield was sturdy, and despite its visible wear would protect him yet. He felt the gentle breeze, and timed his motions with the roll of the ocean under them. It seemed like he had only just started this mindful work, but soon the daylight darkened under approaching clouds.
The watchman pierced Tapan’s concentration with a sharp cry, summoning hands to their work. No one was idle long on the Krpa ; Tapan slipped his sword and shield to their place at his waist and glanced to the prow at the small but growing sliver of gold on the horizon: Ala Mhigo . At last, they would arrive in Eorzea. Tapan’s stomach already rumbled for real food.
He raced to the lower deck to fulfill his duties. None aboard would notice until it was too late, that the city’s silhouette was marred by billowing plumes of black smoke.
“I will take Prasad and Gita and we will scout on ahead.” Tapan stood as tall as he could, towering over even Rajesh, their captain. At sea he was the leader. Here, with danger about, Tapan had authority. “The rest of you will stay with Jai and Rajesh, lower the sails, and protect yourselves. Do not let anyone close, without our signal, which Jai will know. We will return as soon as we have a place to go.”
Tapan did not wait for a response; he turned on his heel and stepped into the landing craft, followed closely by his companions. They were all tense, coiled as they were, knowing that ahead lay a battlefield, against an enemy they knew not. It was hard to ever consider Tapan a violent man, yet here his blood fair sang in anticipation, and he shifted to keep his muscles loose. He noticed that Gita followed suit, only she clutched her katars, already ready for the fight ahead. Meanwhile Prasad muttered indistinctly, the sound soothing and invigorating. He, too, was ready.
As the shore approached Tapan saw it was dotted with figures. Unarmed. Civillians, young and old, running from the fighting at the city walls. He also saw four men in gilded purple armor giving chase. “Tapan,” Prasad looked up, fingers curled around his small ceremonial kirpan . “We cannot allow them to reach the innocents.”
Gita said nothing, but her look spoke loudly of grim determination. Tapan nodded. “Pick up your staff, my friend. Let’s go and meet them.” With that, he turned, and sprang from the landing craft.
He picked up speed as he ran, drawing up his Khanda and Pari both, eventually skipping across the sand, feet barely touching the ground. The moment they finally laid eyes on him, he launched himself into the air, letting out a cry loud enough that they all snapped attention to him. Circling his khanda over his head, he made himself a wild spectacle, while becoming water--slipping around and past them, occasionally blocking their swords and letting his pari ring out with a crash. They could not ignore him, or he would kill them. But by not ignoring him, Gita’s katars could cut them down. Now that he’d turned their attention away, she came at them from behind, slipping a blade beneath their ribcage, through the backs of their legs, or sinking it into their neck; spilling their blood on the sand. Before they understood their predicament, the fight was over, the soldiers sprawled, groaning now that they could no longer fight. The three intended no cruelty; Gita did not permit them to suffer long. They stood among their slain foes, watching and listening for the next ones. No more came. Tapan turned, then, to the innocents.
“Thank you,” said a woman. “Everything’s gone mad,” another sobbed.
“They wore the gryffin’s colors.” came Prasad’s voice, adjusting his turban after finishing completing the mantra that had kept Tapan’s dangerous dance from turning into his own demise.
Tapan’s expression spoke volumes; he’d fair forgotten the colors of this distant land, and in his haste to fulfill his moral obligations, they had slain members of the Ala Mhigan royal guard!
“They’ve gone crazy! They’re killing us, all of us!” The first woman barely contained her desperation. She visibly forced herself to calm, them spoke evenly, “you must guide us to safety. Please, you must protect us.”
Of course they must. “What is your name?” Tapan asked.
Her eyes narrowed. “Syhrwyb,” she replied, her voice suddenly even.
“Sir-web,” Tapan repeated, “Make sure they all stay with us. We’re going back to the ship, it’s plain there is no safety here.” They would pull the Krpa ashore, and arm any who could hold a sword to patrol the beach, and the ship would live up to its name, the Mercy of Radz-at-Han .
They would take on over seventy men, women, and children that night, and for the following four weeks of fighting, Tapan and his fighters, along with Syhrwyb and any capable of taking up arms, would defend each other from the worst of it, until sanity won out--Theodric was defeated, and Ala Migho's citizens, returned inside the walls to lick their wounds and clean up the mess. The Krpa was damaged. It would take time before they could leave, so Tapan would stay with Syhrwyb and her family while they waited--and before long he had a small, but nevertheless convincing, reason to stay.
They named him Kamaal. Perfect.
But before he could ever set eyes upon his child, fighting broke out anew, an invasion taking advantage of the weakened nation. He hid them as Garlemald's machines of war descended upon the city, their metal joints cracking stone and bone alike. He didn't come back.
Syhrwyb would remember him with regret and fondness in equal measure; she would have other lovers, eventually, but theirs was a bond of desperation against an insane world, a measure of defense when society itself would defend none.